


Qatar Without Q

by Tokyo_the_Glaive



Series: Tumblr Shorts [6]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Bond Plays Golf, Fluff, Golf, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Postcards, Q's a DJ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 14:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6707377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond discovers that Q's an EDM artist on the side.  He's not a fan of the music, but he is intrigued.</p><p>(Or, the one where Bond and Q have surprising hobbies that bring them together.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Qatar Without Q

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt given by fand0mfan on tumblr: "00q: surprising hobbies". Enjoy!

It was entirely Eve’s idea to get out for the night, have a few drinks, have some _fun_.She’d underscored that word, emphasized it with her eyebrows and her smile.Bond had been very sure where the night would end, so he had said yes, yes, yes.

Bond had been very, very wrong.

He hadn’t been in a room with this many hammered teenagers since the Navy.Bond’s shoes nearly adhered to the floor, which was sticky with spilled drinks and other unmentionables.He had long since sweat through his shirt, though there was no sense being self-conscious about it: the air was thick with the unpleasant stench of body odour.With hardly a degree of breathing room for the number of people gyrating in one place, arms thrown in the air and “dancing”, Bond felt pressed in on all sides by unfamiliar people who were just this side of too handsy.

Bond glared, but Eve just laughed at him as she swayed to the music—if it could be termed so much.It _pounded_.Bond could feel it in his fingertips and down to his bones.The bass was steady and fast, low and deep, but the melody was light and quick and ridiculously catchy.It was trash, pure and simple, all pop production and simple chords designed to give a specific feel at specific moments.There was the lead-up, there was the drop, there was the rest—predictable, monotonous, horrid.

As much as Bond considered throttling Eve for bringing him here, if he ever got his hands on the DJ, there would be hell to pay.

The lights didn’t help.They were programmed to flash on and off, leaving the room alternatively pitch black or drenched in a neon rainbow.It was migraine-inducing and utterly moronic.

Eve was trying to say something—Bond could see her mouth moving under the blinking lights—but he couldn’t make heads or tails of what it was.He wanted a drink, preferably somewhere civilized—somewhere that wasn’t this dreadful club.

Eve grabbed his hand and pointed it across the room.There, on a small dais, stood the DJ, one arm in the air making some sort of gesture, head down to face the instrumentation before him.Bond felt time stop.

Since when was Q an EDM DJ?

* * *

“He’s great, isn’t he?”

Bond didn’t know where Eve had gotten the cigarettes—he wondered how much he knew about her personal life after all, after tonight—but he didn’t protest as she fished a lighter out of her bag and lit one for each of them.They stood outside the nightclub, propped near the door.Bond could still hear the music from Q’s set as it smashed through what little soundproofing the club had.It beat in the bricks and jostled his vertebrae.It was a miracle someone hadn’t called the police for all the noise.

“That’s one word for it,” Bond said, raising the cigarette to his lips.There wasn’t a tremendous line outside the club, but there were a few people struggling to get in.They swayed on the sidewalk, drunk and happy and probably high to boot.Bond had seen anything between marijuana and cocaine while inside, all out in the open.

It had surprised him that Q was in such a place.

“You’re just old,” Eve said, taking a long drag.

“That’s your kind of venue, then?”

Eve shrugged.“It’s nice, once you get the hang of it,” she said.

“Did Q introduce you?”

“Other way around,” Eve said.Her eyes caught the red of a traffic light as it changed.“He’s really good.”

Bond didn’t have anything to say to that.His knowledge of EDM was limited.Privately, he didn’t think it took any skill.

“I manage him, actually,” Eve said, as if there hadn’t been a pause at all.“We wanted to see if it would work—him as DJ, me as manager.So far it’s a smash.Q’s cute, got that cachectic look to him that makes the all the boys and girls want to eat him alive.”

Bond nearly choked on his cigarette.

“He does,” Eve said, a little defensive.

“I’m sure,” Bond said, a little too quickly.

Eve glanced at him.She seemed surprised.“Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

“Didn’t notice what?” Bond asked.

“That he’s cute,” Eve said, drawing out that last word.She’d used it twice, now.It wasn’t a word Bond liked overmuch.

“Mm,” Bond said.For all that there was no good way to respond, Bond was paid to think his way out of situations far more serious than this.“Do you really think he’s my type?”He gave a lascivious grin, the one that had won him a place between a variety of all-too willing thighs on many occasions over the years.

Eve just smacked him.“Don’t know,” she said honestly.“But you’re his.”

* * *

Bond didn’t see Q the next day (or the same day, depending on how you looked at the time) but he did see him the day after.

The two images were almost impossible to reconcile—almost.Q in the nightclub was a master of the masses.He’d stood over them, surrounded by tech that Bond suspected was mostly for show.Q had them eating out of his hands, moving to his beats, answering to his rhythms.

Take away the sound and the lights; was Q in Vauxhall so different?

“007,” Q said by way of greeting.“I here Qatar is horrendous this time of year.I hope you haven’t packed your nice suits.Even _you_ have to be susceptible to heat stroke.”

Q looked up at him only when Bond was close enough to touch.

“Q,” Bond said.He pulled his lips into a thin, false smile.Q mirrored the gesture.

“Nothing fun this time,” Q said.“Standard kit.Bring me back my gun or there will be hell to pay.”

Bond snatched the black case off of Q’s workbench.It felt too light, as usual.

“From you?” Bond asked.“I’d like to see that.”

Q sighed and glared at him over his glasses.“From admin, and accounting,” he said.“Before you came along, your section had respectable numbers, you know.”

“I suppose I’m a bad influence,” Bond teased.

“The worst,” Q confirmed.“Out with you, now.Some of us have real work to do.”

Bond weighed his options, then came out with, “I saw you, you know.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“ _Delirium._ ”

At the mention of the club, Q paused.

“And?” Q asked.He’d already returned to his work.Bond didn’t frown, though it was a near thing.He’d anticipated a different response.

“And?”

Q punched in a set of commands on his keyboard.“How did you find it?”

Bond quickly considered the situation and said, “Interesting.”

Q’s mouth quivered, flirting with a smile.“ _Interesting_ ,” Q echoed.He said nothing for a long moment.“I wouldn’t have thought it your scene.”

Bond shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he realized that this counted as one of his longest conversations with his quartermaster.

“Well,” Bond said, “I suppose you can teach an old dog new tricks after all.”

Q’s head shot up faster than a bullet from a pistol.He stared at Bond for a long moment, mouth slightly agape.Bond grinned, turned on his heel, and sauntered out of Q’s domain.He counted: _four, three, two…_

“Just where do you think you’re going?” Q called, right on cue.

“Mission, Q,” he said without turning.“I’ll send a postcard.”

* * *

(Bond made good on that promise, just to be a tease.  The postcard had an oryx on it, and _Qatar_ written in white letters in some terrible script font.   He guessed Q wouldn’t approve, which was mostly why he picked it.

 _Qatar just isn’t the same without Q_ , Bond wrote on the back. _Regards, J._ )

* * *

“Tell me you have something more for me than that bloody card,” Q said when Bond returned.  It was more for show than anything else; anyone could see that Bond was quite literally empty-handed.

“I told you I’d send a card,” Bond protested, smiling in that vague way that had gotten him so far in the past.“I don’t remember anything about the kit.Hello, by the way.Good to see you as well.”

“Is it a hobby of yours?” Q demanded, his hands on his scrawny hips.“Destroying equipment?”

“I prefer golfing, actually.”

Q shut his eyes.“Are you serious?”

“You’re a DJ,” Bond said, emphasizing each letter to get under Q’s skin, “I play golf.Everyone needs a hobby.”

When Q opened his eyes, he didn’t look amused.“I don’t believe you for one second.”

“Good,” Bond said cheerfully.“I’ll have you know I’ve tickets to your next set.”

Q’s frown deepened.“I don’t have a next set.”

“You will,” Bond said.“I’ll let you know what I think of it.”

Realization crossed Q’s face before Bond turned away.“Eve,” he said.

Bond neither confirmed nor denied that fact.

* * *

Q moved faster than Bond did, though he admittedly had access to his laptop whereas Bond had to move the old-fashioned way.  When Bond reached Eve’s desk, she’d already spoken to Q.

“No,” she said.“We’re not talking about this during business hours.”

“What, afraid of being caught doing work on the side?” Bond asked, leaning back slightly.Eve didn’t like to be crowded, even when there was a full desk between them.“What ever will Mallory say?”

“ _M_ ,” Eve said pointedly, “doesn’t think anything of it.Everyone has a hobby.”

“You’re the second person to tell me so much today,” Bond said.“Maybe I just want to learn to appreciate the art of EDM.”

Eve rolled her eyes.“Whatever you’re doing, stop.”

Bond smiled.“And what am I doing?”

“Digging,” Eve said.“Working where you shouldn’t be.”

“Why did you take me to _Delirium_?” Bond asked.He dropped the teasing tone.“It wasn’t for the ambiance.”

“I thought you’d be interested.”

“I am.”

Eve shut her eyes.“Leave it be,” she said.“It was a mistake, and he’s embarrassed enough.”

Though Bond didn’t show it, the gears were turning in his mind.Embarrassment wasn’t precisely what he’d been going for.Q was just full of surprises.

“Let me know when the next show is,” Bond said, “and I’ll leave you with something for him.”

Eve’s eyes narrowed.“It better be good.”

“Oh,” Bond said, already reaching for a pen and paper, “it is.Private invitation only, though.After all, I have to make it up to Q.”

As Bond scribbled a date, time, and address on the paper, he was aware of Eve’s searching eyes.

“If you’re toying with him, this is a no-go,” she said.

“Protective, are you?Or just jealous?”

Something akin to anger flashed in her eyes.Bond hadn’t crossed the line, but he’d come close.

“He’s a good kid,” Eve snapped, “and he’s unfortunate enough to go for pricks like you.You play him and you’ll have me to contend with.It won’t be fun.”

Bond just smiled and slid the paper across her desk.“Show time?”

Eve looked at the address, then back up at Bond.“Don’t make me regret this,” she said as she pocketed what Bond had given her. “It isn’t set in stone yet, but it’ll be after your—thing.I’ll let you know as soon as I know.I hope that isn’t a problem.”

Bond doubted she was sincere in her hope, but it didn’t matter.

“All the better,” he said.“Many thanks.”

“Don’t mess this up,” Eve called as he began to move away.

“I won’t.”

* * *

Q gave no indication that he’d received Bond’s message.  Bond said nothing about it; he wouldn’t push Q one way or another, though he was counting on curiosity to carry the day.

The day started off foggy, which would have ruined everything, but it burned off well enough.The cloud cover was less than ideal—it looked ready to rain at any given moment, which would _also_ ruin everything—but Bond couldn’t control the weather.

He could, however, control many other things.

He’d booked the slots all around his own tee off time, for one.Barring the appearance of a professional, there wouldn’t be a soul within shooting distance of Bond.He’d dressed well—better than he usually did for a round, to be sure—in preparation.

The course he’d chosen, Wynnewood Straits, was one he’d played many times before.He knew all of the ins and outs of each hole, the pitfalls and tricks that befuddled most of the casual golfing community.It wasn’t a course he played often anymore—he preferred more of a challenge—but he needed to be in a specific place at a specific time, and that meant he had to play a smooth game.

If Bond worried, he needn’t have.He was on the eighth hole precisely when he was supposed to be.He was preparing to tee up when Q pulled up in a golf cart.

Bond gave him his best smile as Q parked the thing and got out, all graceless knees and choppy movements.

“I’ll have you know that you lost me a bet just now,” Q said.

“My apologies,” Bond said, utterly without remorse.

Q looked about.With the cloud cover, the green looked even greener, and the trees felt dark and tall.When the wind blew, they rattled like old bones.Underfoot, the grass was crisp and bright.

“You’re playing now?” Q asked, his eyes sliding back to Bond.

“I am,” he said.

“May I watch?”

“Of course.”

Bond turned his back on Q to set up the ball.He selected his driver, swinging it slightly for show, before he lined up the shot.

It was a clean drive, even with the breeze.The eighth hole was his favorite.Aware of Q’s eyes roving over him, Bond pulled back his swing, then brought it through hard, the club forming a smooth arc that ended over the opposite shoulder.

Q whistled as the ball took off, flying high and far.Bond watched, with no small degree of satisfaction, as it landed near the middle of the green, a scant meter from the hole.

“You do play,” Q said.

“Do you?”

Q shook his head.“My mother did,” he said.“I was never very good at it.”

“Want to give it a swing?”

“I’ve a feeling you’ll mock me if I say no.”

Bond noted the defensiveness in Q’s tone and said, “I wouldn’t force you to do anything you didn’t want to do.”

Q was quiet for several long moments.He stared at the green as if it held all the answers.

“Mind if I just tag along, then?”

“Be my guest,” Bond said with a nod as he slid the driver back in the bag with the rest of the clubs.He loaded the clubs into the back of Q’s golf cart—he hadn’t elected to use one, anticipating this—and climbed in.

Gingerly, Q slid into the seat next to him.

“I can drive,” Q said, almost as an afterthought.Bond knew it was weighing on his mind.Q felt awkward for not playing, for not being comfortable.That wouldn’t do.

“Your mother,” Bond said, “did she play professionally?”

“Amateur,” Q responded.“Never made it to the big tours, but she said having me was a better prize than a trophy.”Q hesitated, then said, “She could have, if she wanted—played the tours, I mean.”

“Why didn’t she?” Bond asked.They rode across the course to the green, and with every bump, Q’s leg bumped against Bond’s.

“She didn’t like the publicity,” Q said, “or that’s what she told me.She would have liked to have played, but there was too much money and politics involved.”

Bond shrugged as he parked the cart on the green.“It runs in the family, then,” he said.The putt was ridiculously easy.Q only got one foot off the cart before Bond sunk the ball.

“Two strokes,” Q said.When Bond stood after retrieving the ball, he saw that Q had a course guide.“Three’s par for this one.”

“Always good to be under,” Bond said.

“Are you keeping score?”

Bond tapped his head.

“Tell me your numbers,” Q insisted.He fished a dull pencil out of a pocket—it was one of those tiny things they give you when you set out, never sharp enough to write in the tiny boxes.Bond rattled off his shots from memory, watching as Q dutifully took them down.

“Keep up the good work, Mr. Bond,” Q said.He had put on an accent, but it was _terrible_ , whatever it was, and it had Bond laughing just a little.Q smiled back as he pocketed the scorecard.

“Shall we, then?” Bond asked, climbing in.

“Onwards,” Q said.“Let’s see how good you are.”

* * *

Bond didn’t beat his personal best, which happened to set the amateur record for the course, but he did come close.

“I am impressed,” Q said as they walked out to the parking lot.The clouds still hung heavy, but the rain had held off.“I thought you’d been bluffing.”

“Shame about your bet,” Bond said.

“Should have guessed you weren’t lying about this one,” Q grumbled.“You never fail to surprise.”

“You’d be disappointed if I did.”

Q smiled.“I suppose I would.”

“Did you drive here?” Bond asked, surveying the cars.None of them looked like anything Q would drive.

“No,” Q said, looking away.“I took a cab.”

Bond considered for a moment, then said, “I’ll drive you back, if you’d like.Or I could call you a cab.”

Q wasn’t looking at him, but Bond could see his ears go red through his curls.

“That would be lovely,” Q said.

“Which one?” Bond teased.

Q glared.“You’re insufferable.”Bond just smiled and led Q to his car.“And rich.Do you really make that much more than I do?”

Bond laughed.“Marrying heiresses that die tragically days later does pay well,” he joked.Q laughed rather loudly at that as he climbed into the passenger seat. “Now then, sir,” Bond said, pulling out his best imitation of the accent Q had affected earlier, “where might you be heading?”

Q laughed loudly.The sound drew a smile to Bond’s face.

“Home,” Q said.“I owe you a cup of coffee, at the least.”

“I thought you only drank tea,” Bond said, backing out.

“Not going to ask me where ‘home’ is?” Q asked.Bond didn’t have to answer that.“I don’t drink coffee often, that’s true, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to brew it.Besides, I seem to remember you scorning tea, you absolute heathen.”

Bond said, “You remember correctly.”

“Coffee it is, then,” Q said, settling in.He looked out the window as Bond rolled down the drive, then onto the road.“Thank you.”

“Hm?”

“For this,” Q said.“I haven’t had a real day off in a while.”

“You have today off every week.”

Q hesitated.“I usually spend it working,” he admitted.“There’s always something to be done.”

“Aren’t your cats lonely?”

Bond glanced at Q just as Q threw him a sharp look.“How do you know about my cats?”

Bond shrugged.“It was either cats or dogs,” he said.“The hair.It’s too short and light to be yours.”

Q sighed.“They do shed,” he murmured.“Good to know you haven’t been sneaking around my flat while I’m not there.”

“Who said I did my sneaking while you were out?” Bond teased.They were close now—back in the city, at least.“Do they have names?”

“My cats?Of course they have names.Athena and Artemis.”

“You named your cats after Greek gods?”

“Are you mocking my cats, Mr. Bond?”

Bond shook his head.“Not at all.”

Beside him, Q shrugged.“I always liked Greek mythology,” he said.“The gods were more human than the humans.”

“Is this the place?” Bond asked, peering through the windshield.He’d never been to Q’s flat, but the address had to be close.

“Yes,” Q said, looking out the window.“I’ve got a spot in front you can use, just there.”

“Why, Q, are you inviting me up?”

Q snorted as Bond parked.“I’m certainly not bringing your coffee down to you.You want it, you come upstairs.”

“As you wish,” Bond murmured.

* * *

Q’s flat was small but tidy.  Q took off his shoes at the door and Bond followed suit, watching as two white cats came forward to wind around Q’s legs, meowing.

“Hello there,” Q said, scratching one behind the ear.It arched into his hand while the other approached Bond.Bond crouched and offered his hand for the cat to sniff.

“That’s Artemis,” Q said.“She has the gold eyes.Athena’s eyes are blue.”

“Hello, Artemis,” Bond said.After another few moments, Artemis pushed her forehead against Bond’s palm, and Bond took that as permission to pet.

“I didn’t think you’d care for cats,” Q said, standing up.

“I grew up with dogs,” Bond said.He watched as Q moved farther into the apartment.

The front door led into a living area with hardwood floors.A low couch sat before a dark coffee table that faced a slim television.To the right of that were windows that faced the street.To the left of the living area was a dining table and chairs, and beyond that, a small kitchen.The cabinets were standard issue, but someone had put thought into the countertops: warm, gold granite with rounded edges and shining flecks.Two tall stools sat by the counter.Between the kitchen and living area was a doorway, undoubtedly to Q’s bedroom.Aside from a coat closet and a tiny pantry, that was all Bond could see of Q’s flat.

Artemis purred under his fingertips even as Bond stood to follow Q into the kitchen.He took a seat on one of the stools, Artemis coming to sit on the other.

“Coffee’ll just be a few minutes,” Q said, reaching up to grab something—a French press—from near the top of one cabinet.He measured out a few tablespoons of ground coffee into the press, and as the kettle neared a boil, Q shut it off, pouring hot water over the grounds.He stirred the mixture, then placed the plunger just over the top.

“You didn’t think I’d know how,” Q said, looking up at Bond.

“I’ve always liked French press best,” Bond said, not answering the question.

Q smiled.“You’re not the only one who knows a thing or two about reading people,” he said.“You’re the old fashioned type.Of course you like the French press.”

“What else do I like, do you think?” Bond asked, leaning across the counter.

Q flushed a little.“About what?” Q asked.“There are lots of things one can like.”

Bond tilted his head.“What do I like with regards to music?”

“Jazz,” Q answered almost immediately.“You like the slide of the notes, the feel of the blues and the eccentric rhythms.”

Bond smiled a little to concede the point.

“I’d guess that you like classical music, too, but it’s not your favourite,” Q said, a little unsure.“At any rate, the kind of music I make isn’t your taste.You’re not a fan of pop music.”

Bond shrugged.“It all sounds the same to me,” he said.Q pushed the plunger on the French press down, slowly forcing the grounds to the bottom.

“It can,” Q said.“Of course, there’s a wide variety out there, so everyone’s not precisely the same.There’s a tremendous stylistic difference between Florence Welch and the Arctic Monkeys.”

“Do they classify as pop?”

“They are _popular_ ,” Q said slowly, “but maybe not.Genres are difficult.”

“Says the EDM artist.”

Q coloured.“Well,” he said, “it was an experiment.”

“‘Was’?”

Q fished two mugs out of the same cabinet he’d pulled the French press from.Bond raised his eyebrow at the sight of them.

“You didn’t have to get me a personalized mug,” he said.It was a Scrabble mug—the letter _J_.

“Don’t,” Q said, pushing one over to Bond.“I bought all of the high-valued letters.I could give you _Z_ if that would deflate your ego.”

“Not at all,” Bond said.“Are you going to stop?”

“Stop?” Q asked, frowning.“Oh.I might have to.Eve’s been getting calls asking me to do sets abroad.I’ve become something of a sensation here, and my original songs are popular enough in their own right.”

“But you don’t fly,” Bond observed.Q poured the coffee—half a mug for himself, a full mug for Bond.He took the coffee from Q and waited.

“There’s that,” Q said, raising his mug to his lips.The steam fogged his glasses almost immediately.“I can’t be away for any considerable period of time, either.”

“You’re permitted vacation,” Bond said.

“If I kept at this, I’d be away more time than less,” Q said.Bond cupped his mug in both hands, feeling the heat seep into his skin.One of the cats—Athena, based on the eyes—hopped up on the counter and sniffed Bond’s hands, then his coffee, before walking over to Q.

“Have you considered it?” Bond asked, gently.Q cocked his head, one hand coming down to absently pet Athena.“Doing that full-time,” Bond said.

Q arched an eyebrow.“Did you just ask me to quit?”

“No,” Bond said quickly.“Not at all.”

An image flashed through his mind: Q, on stage, surrounded by all of those teenagers, partying well through the night.

“You seemed happy when I saw you,” Bond said carefully.

“I’m perfectly happy with my work,” Q said.

Bond realized he’d backed himself into a corner rather spectacularly.“I just wondered,” he said, “why you work for Six.”

Q frowned.“Why do you?”

Bond took a drink of his coffee to avoid answering right away.It was a little strong, but it was bitter and rich.Q made a good pot of coffee.

“You don’t have to answer,” Q said quickly.“It’s just, I—”

“You don’t have to answer, either,” Bond said.“Your reasons are your own, the same as mine.”

Q looked down at his coffee.“I did think about it,” he admitted to the mug.“Eve and I talked about it.She wouldn’t be able to continue as my manager, and it wouldn’t be the same without her.I’d miss this too much, too.”He gestured between himself and Bond.“The music—it’s a hobby, but it isn’t who I am.”

When Q looked up, Bond recognized the look in his eyes.He was sure of himself, but he wanted validation.Bond had seen that look reflected in the old M’s eyes every time he returned from an operation.

“I’m glad,” Bond said.“You’ve spoiled me for all other quartermasters.”

* * *

The next week, Bond saw very little of Q.  Bond had time before he next went into the field—mandatory leave, really—and he was sorry for Q’s absence.  Q outside of Six and away from others was charming, if nervous.  He was afraid of disappointing others—or, at least, of disappointing Bond.  When he relaxed, though, he had such a lovely way about him.

Orders came down the line: Bond was needed in Bolivia.As such, the next he saw Q, it was in Q Division to pick up his kit.

“Just a moment,” Q said as Bond approached his desk.Q’s standard kit was nowhere in sight.“Here we are.”

Q pulled a black trunk from under his desk and set it on a nearby table.He opened two latches, then swung the lid open.

“A bit fancier than usual,” Q said, slightly smug.Bond ran his fingers along the barrel.“Semi-automatic.Telescopic stock and flash suppressor.I modified the grip—it’ll be just like your Walther.Also…”

Q fished in his desk for something else.Bond couldn’t look away from the rifle.

“Here,” Q said.“The cufflinks are EMPs—not nuclear, but they’ll be sure to raise hell.”

“You’ve been busy,” Bond said.

“Radio is with the rifle, if you need it,” Q said, leaning against the table.“All yours.”Bond looked at Q.“Come visit when you get back.”

“I will,” Bond promised.Q smiled slightly, moving back to his desk.“I will.”

* * *

(Bolivia would have been a disaster without the cufflinks.  Bond sent a postcard with with an alpaca on it and wrote _Thank you_ in Aymara.   _Regards, J._ )

* * *

Bond found Eve blocking the way to Q Division upon his return.

“This weekend,” she said, “2350.”

“Right,” Bond said.“I’ll be there.”

Eve snagged his arm, then glanced down at the case in his hands.

“Intact,” he said, grinning.

Eve took a step back.She glanced down at the case, then back up at Bond.

“You just lost me a bet,” Eve said.

Bond said, “With Q?”

Eve scowled.“He was sure you were going to return it.Damn it.”She turned to walk with Bond into Q Division.“I suppose we’re even now.”

“Q had made the bet with you, then.”

Eve rolled her eyes.“Of course you golf,” she said.“You’re an old man.”

Q watched them approach, a smile playing on his lips.

“The cufflinks were spectacular,” Bond told him, playing it up.Beside him, Eve sighed.Bond hoisted the rifle, packed away in its case, up onto the table Q had initially set it on.“Used most of the rounds, of course.”

“Of course,” Q said, opening the case.He held out a hand, and Eve dropped a few coins into his palm.“Thank you.”

“So glad you have faith in me,” Bond said.

Q hummed.“Say, you’re not going anywhere this weekend, are you?”

Bond tilted his head and glanced at Eve, who looked faintly shocked.

“I don’t have any plans,” Bond said.

“Good,” Q said.“I’m working on my next set right now.It’s scheduled for Saturday, 11:30 in the evening.I don’t expect you to come, but would you get dinner with me beforehand?”

For all that he sounded confident, his hands were twitching and his pupils were dilated.He’d clearly thought about this, and he was worried about Bond’s response.

“I would be delighted,” Bond said.

* * *

(Bond did end up going to the set, after dinner.  It was loud and messy and filthy but Q was beautiful, standing up there, surrounded by all of it.  Bond told him so much afterwards, pressing kisses into the crook of Q’s neck to hear him sigh.

“Less talking,” Q said, “more, _ah_.”

Bond was more than happy to oblige.)


End file.
